


Best-Laid Plans

by WickedIntentions



Category: Borderlands, Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Asshole!Jack, Bondage, Emotional Manipulation, General Manager!Rhys, Good Dad!Jack, Hand Jobs, Jack's Age is Showing, M/M, Massage, Oral Sex, Pining, Power Play, Praise Kink, Rimming, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Struggling Financially!Jack, Trust Issues, Unhealthy Relationships, Young and Sickly!Angel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-18 17:56:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7324918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WickedIntentions/pseuds/WickedIntentions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Handsome Jack loses his company and fortune to his ex-wife and ends up blacklisted and working a minimum-wage job in the resulting scandal. What is left is a fallen king with huge trust issues and a sickly daughter. He will stop at nothing to regain his throne.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Adjusting (Poorly)

There are points in our lives that we look back on all that we have experienced and accomplished which have helped shape who we are. We might ask ourselves, “Am I happy about how all of it played out?” No, that’s impossible. But it’s done, and we add it to the packs slung over our shoulders as we continue our journeys, whether it’s a ten-mile hike to our next destination or a sharp drop to our knees where we stand. There is a clench in our chests as faces come to mind, the faces of the people whose hands we clung to and trotted happily behind—the faces of people whose hands we were shackled to and dragged ruthlessly by—in order to arrive at where we are now. We thank them, or we curse them because it’s easy to shove the responsibility into their arms instead of holding onto it.

Some prolific individuals might put all of that into words, if only to craft an entertaining read or make a quick buck because it’s remarkably easy to write the truth and in one’s own tone of voice.

Handsome Jack had written more than a few of his own autobiographies, sometimes while drunk, sometimes as a joke, sometimes because someone challenged him to do so. But his story, he found, was more difficult to put into written word due to the simple fact that he never told the truth. It was like creating a fairy tale from scratch with an interesting, fictional world and amusing characters. To the public, he was a man born into privilege with astonishingly good looks and intelligence, able to pluck up a myriad of life skills with almost no effort and tuck them securely under his belt. When he looked back, he did so with a wide grin, and he didn’t use words like “regret” or “disappointment,” unless he was expressing how he felt about the four-digit thread count of his imported sheets.

Or at least he did, until recently, when everything had fallen to pieces right under him. He had barely been clinging to the remains before his now ex-wife, the love of his life and partner in all aspects, had mercilessly stomped on his hands until he was forced to let go.

The truth was that _you should never trust anybody—anybody but yourself_. Take what you need and discard the rest. People were tools existing purely for your use if you knew how to work them. It was a hard lesson to learn.

His story was the most entertaining of reads, a man who had almost literally owned the world, only to have it slip between the cracks of his fingers with the scratch of a pen and the curt bang of a gavel. He once commanded an entire empire, one for which he had painstakingly climbed the ladder since he was a fresh, young man out of college. He had bathed himself and his family in luxury from every fathomable aspect, and now— **now** all he had to his name was a miniscule checking account, from which he counted every cent to ensure he had enough to keep the bills paid every month and still afford food and other such necessities.

And he had his daughter, who was perhaps the only part of his life that he could depend on remaining a constant in these rough times. She was always smiling, always remaining positive. She was strong. She simply had to be, if she came from him.

Jack tightly clenched the rim of the sink he was hunched over, sending his darkening glare right into the soapy, murky depths of the chunky water before him when his coworker gingerly placed a new stack of filthy dishes right next to the ones already waiting. Jack took a deep breath through his nose, forcing himself to relax his hands.

“ _Sorry!_ ” the short man, clad in a white apron, hat, and dark chef garments, whined under his breath. There was pity oozing from his tone, and he scampered away before Jack had finished exhaling.

Even after losing his company and the majority of his wealth to his ex-wife, Jack was still fighting. His daughter depended on him, and he had no intention of allowing his little Angel to suffer in poverty through the remainder of her adolescence. Hell, _he_ had no intention of suffering in poverty. It was truly a horrifying experience sitting on a cold toilet seat in the morning, the only one in the dingy little apartment he and Angel now called home, when he used to have five—or maybe six; he wasn’t sure—which all automatically heated themselves to a comfortable temperature. It was jarring to have to use the microwave to cook dinner most nights and, when taking a bite out of the finished product, finding disgustedly that only a portion of it actually cooked properly. But most of all, it was shameful and utterly embarrassing to be seen leaving and entering the low-income housing, an apartment that shared walls with other people, something he had resigned himself to in order to save enough money to still be able to gift Angel the things she wanted.

Occasionally. Within reason. If she was good.

She had inherited his mischievous streak and the need to do what **she** wanted when **she** wanted to, after all.

Jack hung his head, his broad shoulders hunched, and he turned his face to the side when he heard someone enter the kitchen from the dining area, the din of chatter following through the open door before cutting off abruptly.

“Come on, guys, dinner rush is starting!” the newly arrived general manager called, clapping his hands together to project urgency. He wore a smile and had a skip in his step as he surveyed the stations of the bustling kitchen he was overseeing. “We have some big reservations tonight, so I want everyone to work together to put out some amazing food.”

Jack couldn’t help but silently mock the man when he returned his attention grudgingly to his work, irritated by how chipper the general manager was. He was well aware that if all he had to do was criticize other people’s work all day, he would be pretty damn cheerful, too, and he resented the general manager for it. He flinched when another one of the chefs dropped off some more utensils and bowls at his sink, balancing them precariously on top of the ones he had neglected to clean while he was brooding about his utter bitch of an ex-wife.

“Hey there, Jack,” the general manager greeted pleasantly, popping up next to him and glancing non-too-subtly at the pile-up of dishes that would cause problems for the aforementioned big reservations if not dealt with soon.

Jack inwardly dared him to criticize with a quiet grind of his teeth. He didn’t bother to return the greeting.

“So how’s your first day going?”

The older man discreetly peeked at the shiny name tag pinned to his boss’s buttoned-down shirt. ‘ _Rhys_ ’ flashed at him encouragingly, and he enunciated it a few times in his head before recalling how it had been introduced to him during his interview. He contemplated his wording, stopping himself from blurting out some choice complaints—he did this increasingly more as of late, seeing as how he wasn’t the CEO of a multi-trillionaire company any longer.

“It’s, uh… _going_ ,” he ground out with difficulty before delicately picking up a pair of tongs covered in batter. He wrinkled his nose at the smell permeating from it, his features contorting in visible disgust.

“It’s tough,” Rhys agreed sympathetically. He raised a hand and placed it on Jack’s shoulder companionably, and the older man wanted to brush it off as he would a speck of dirt. “You don’t have to scrub every little thing off, you know. Just let it all soak, spray off the bad spots, then throw it all in the dishwasher for a few runs. It’ll make things much easier on you.”

“Hm. ‘Kay.” He barely refrained from adding a condescending little pet name at the end. It was a clipped response, clearly dismissive, a tone which he had perfected from his days as master of the universe. Dishwasher or whatever, he was still Handsome-goddamned-Jack, and he was born to give orders, not take them.

Rhys seemed to hesitate a few more moments, hovering over Jack’s shoulder and watching him toss a decent chunk of his workload into the warm water to let it soak, as suggested. The younger man chewed on his lip and seemed to want to say more, but the words clung stubbornly to his tongue. Finally, Rhys patted Jack’s shoulder a few more times, gave him an awkward, lopsided smile, and hurried away and out of the kitchen as if his ass were on fire.

Jack arched an eyebrow at the behavior before shaking his head. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, realizing just how much they stung from standing at the sink all day. Just a few more hours, and he would be able to call it a day and head home to his daughter. She admittedly shouldn’t be alone at the apartment, but Jack had no other suitable options for her with their current budget.

He had always homeschooled Angel himself, wanting to be in control of her development, shaping her to be his successor, so enrolling her now into public school was something he wholeheartedly disagreed with, though she had expressed some interest in experiencing it. _Hell to the no, babycakes_ , he had told her, and that was the end of that, no matter how much she pouted cutely at him.

It was that adorable little face that he kept in mind while he haphazardly tossed plastic and metal alike into the automatic dishwasher and smacked the button to run it for a few minutes. His senses prickled with the beginnings of a violent rampage when the dishes kept piling up. He slowly fell behind and ended up having to stay past his shift to finish washing everything.

And those damn pitying looks he kept getting from the chefs. He was going to strangle the next person who gave him one.

 _Friggin’ dishes, man_. He was **way** too handsome and ridiculously smart for this stupid job.

 

* * *

 

The next few days of work passed at a snail’s pace, and Jack was slowly losing his mind. The work was nonstop and utterly dull, and it didn’t seem that he was getting any more efficient at it. He arrived home every evening past when his shift was scheduled to end, and he always smelled unpleasantly like someone had blended several dishes together, burnt the result to a crisp, and dumped it over him, as Angel had colorfully described. His nails, once attractively manicured, were broken and chewed down. His fingers and palms were becoming permanently wrinkled because he spent nearly nine hours arm-deep in a sink of hot soapy water that he refilled about four times a day to clear the leftover bits of soggy food from the drain. It was freaking _disgusting_ —Jack was one of those people who didn’t bat an eye over the most brutal of violence but tossed his cookies if his food touched on his plate.

His feet were tender and equally wrinkled, and he tried balancing on different parts of his feet to relieve them. His coworkers often saw him rocking back and forth from his toes to his heels but never dared to comment on his little dance. His back was aching like a sumuvabitch, and he was in need of a very good massage. He was getting to the point that he was seriously debating about holding someone at knifepoint to get what he needed.

Jack hadn’t worked nearly this hard since his youth, and while he loathed to admit it, he was getting on in years. He hadn’t maintained a healthy lifestyle and often felt older than he actually was. An auto-adjusting mattress and heating pads had worked wonders on his body when he had been too rich to notice.

It certainly didn’t help his state of mind that the general manager—Rhys—was an annoying insect, always buzzing around him, making small talk that Jack wanted to punch right back into his throat. **Yes** , things are abso-friggin’-lutely peachy. **No** , I don’t need a new sponge. _Now go away before I find a reason to dirty this very sharp butcher knife again._

He didn’t say most of that stuff out loud because as much as he abhorred his job, he needed it, but he was content to pass the time by imagining all the ways he could make Rhys quake with just an intimidating stare.

So when he heard that familiar clacking of leather boots on the tile of the kitchen, clearly headed in his direction, he felt it was well within his right to bash himself with the pan he was spraying down until he fell into a comfortable coma. He groaned into his sleeve, pretending that he was wiping some foamy residue from his cheek, before swinging his face around to shoot Rhys a half-lidded, bored stare. “Yup?”

The younger man faltered in mid-step. He fidgeted a little bit before running a hand through his slicked-back hair. “Hee- _eey_ , Jack.”

“S’up?” Jack grabbed his damp towel and dried his hands, swiveling on his heel to face the other man and tucking his hands nonchalantly into his jean pockets. He held himself tall, though his back was screaming at him, and his feet needed a good rub, which was something he had taken to doing himself in the evenings after a shower. He was embarrassed to admit that it was one of the highlights of his day, easily second to being greeted by a kiss to the cheek from his precious daughter.

He was a man of very few syllables thus far, and he liked to keep it that way. Better the kid realized early on that Jack had no intention of making friends, especially not ones he would end up crushing under his heel on his way up to a more respectable position, if he even wanted to stay at the restaurant for very long. There was no way he would ever feel content answering to somebody else, and if Rhys belonged anywhere with that shaky phasmid of a body, it was beneath him, begging to take orders.

He kept this sentiment to himself, though he liked to think it was ingrained deep in Rhys’s subconscious.

“So I was thinking…” he trailed off unsurely.

—Something Jack would have, in the past, very readily snarked, “What an accomplishment! I’ll get that medal to you as soon as possible.” Instead, his cheek twitched the slightest bit, and a smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth as he laughed heartily at his own joke safely within his mind. _Fuck, I’m witty_ , he self-praised, which lifted his spirits somewhat.

“…Wanna, like, _hang out?_ ” Rhys finally blurted out, a little too loud and twice as awkward. “I mean, after you’re done here, of course. I dunno if you’re into video games or anything—heh, who isn’t?—but Vaughn and I have a really impressive collection and the sweetest hookups. So what’d’ya say?”

Jack contemplated it long and hard before dismissing the younger man with a roll of his eyes and a turn of his back. He had enjoyed a fair few games of his own, but he didn’t enjoy the thought of spending more time with his irritating supervisor than what was strictly necessary at work. Also, he didn’t know who the hell ‘Vaughn’ was, but he didn’t care enough to find out. Better to nip that in the bud quick before it grew into something truly horrifying. “Uh… no?”

In the resulting silence, he peeked at Rhys from the corner of his eye and spotted the crestfallen look on the other man’s face. Luckily, Jack was very proficient in the art of avoiding guilt and altogether being immune to pathetic expressions that demanded attention. Angel could testify to that.

But it didn’t appear that he was done. The general manager came crawling back for more after he recovered from the rejection. “What if… uh, what if I help you do the rest of the dishes? Then will you come?”

“I don’t _come_ on the first date,” Jack retorted with a click of his teeth, annoyed. Hadn’t his rejection been clear enough? Maybe Rhys was one of those kinds that needed to be beat over the head a few times before the words sunk in properly. One of his wires was loose or tunnels blocked because what had gone in one side wasn’t the same coming out the other way. He had dealt with more than a few of those types, and he wouldn’t mind helping out with the _beating over the head_ part.

“…What?!” Rhys pretty much squeaked, taken aback.

“I said, ‘No,’” Jack enunciated with a stress on every word. Then he chuckled, brushing past Rhys with a stack of dishes teetering in his hands, which he tossed in the dishwasher with a noisy clatter. “I mean, ya think I’m _that_ easy? You’d have to at least do the rest of this crap for me before I’d even consider it.”

Before he had finished speaking, Jack was flinching away when he felt Rhys move into his domain. He watched as the other man shoved his sleeves up his arms messily and plunged his hands into the sink—only to wrench away with a yelp, blood welling up from a new puncture wound on his finger.

“That’s why ya wear gloves, pumpkin,” Jack deadpanned, crossing his arms over his chest and taking a step back. Outwardly, he was disinterested and bored, but inwardly, he was bewildered and more than a little suspicious at the general manager’s eagerness to demote himself and do somebody else’s bitch work. “Knives in the sink and all.”

“Right,” Rhys muttered quietly, embarrassment coloring his tone. He wiped his finger on his dark pants and sucked delicately on his smarting injury while glancing about the workspace for an extra pair of gloves. When there were none to be found, and Jack didn’t make a move to offer his own, he excused himself for a moment and headed for the storeroom while calling out, “Hey, Vaughn, gonna be a little late to get home. Go ahead without me, ‘kay?”

The short chef who often piled work on Jack promptly replied, “’Kay, bro!”

Well, that answered the question Jack had literally zero interest in knowing the answer to and would probably forget before the day ended. He eyed the last few chefs while they wiped down their stations and swept the floor before hanging up aprons and disappearing out the back door and into the warm night air.

Rhys soon returned with an apologetic smile and blindingly yellow gloves and worked diligently while his subordinate lingered behind and leaned against a nearby stainless steel counter that had been cleaned already.

Jack knew it would be disinfected again in the morning, but honestly, he didn’t care enough either way. It wasn’t **his** food.

Finally, Rhys retrieved the final load from the dishwasher, dunked it in sanitizing solution, and darted about the kitchen to place everything where it belonged. He skidded to a stop before Jack, appearing so expectant it _hurt_.

“Wow, not bad,” Jack commented, as if he were the supervisor, which he might as well have been. He wasn’t sure why, but the kid was too eager to please, he noted, as Rhys’s face lit up like a Christmas tree at the praise. He tugged his gloves off, tossing them carelessly in the direction of the sink, then untied and slid his apron off with a deliberate slowness, arching his brow as he did.

The kid twitched visibly and appeared faintly sweaty, as if he were watching a striptease.

Jack wanted to laugh aloud at the absurdity of it, but instead, he leaned forward, inches between their lips, and flashed a winning smile that had melted stronger men than Rhys. Leaving it at that, he sidestepped his supervisor and briskly made his way toward the door, hanging up his apron as he did.

Rhys made a few interesting, strangled noises before finding his voice, and he protested, “H-hey, wait! I haven’t told you where I live!”

“Meh, I’m busy tonight, kiddo. Maybe tomorrow,” Jack replied over his shoulder, shrugging one of them. “See ya.”

The hurt mixed with shock on Rhys’s face was well worth it, and it entertained him the entire drive home.

 

* * *

 

“Whatcha so smiley ‘bout, Dad?” Angel demanded, hands on her hips. She knew nothing good made her father smile that hard.

“Things,” Jack told her gleefully, leaning down to receive his kiss, “and _stuff_.”

“Tell meee!” she ordered shrilly, racing after him and tackling him around the legs. She was dragged all the way into the kitchen but ultimately received no answer that satisfied her curiosity.

After all, how do you tell your eleven-year-old daughter that you’re fantasizing about exploiting your supervisor’s interest in you for an easy promotion? Oh, yeah, right after mathematics and science, ‘Using People’ was an important chapter in the curriculum.

Hm.

Maybe when she was a little older.


	2. (No) Remorse

Jack knew Rhys was going to be a little sore over the double rejection he had put him through yesterday, but he hadn’t anticipated the younger man completely avoiding work as a consequence of that. As the hours dragged by, and no peppy brunet shoved his nose into Jack’s business, he reconsidered just how emotionally fragile his prey was. As much as he appreciated the silence, he knew he couldn’t drive away his only hope for escape from the hellhole that was the kitchen. He wanted a private office with a desk and power; something to prop his feet up on and something to elevate him well above the peons. He wanted real money—no, _needed it._ No. _…Demanded it._

He began the day with feet that stung at the slightest pressure—nothing new there—and that swiftly reminded him that had to suck up his pride and approach the kicked puppy that was his general manager, which would have been easier if he could find the damn elusive bastard. Not for the first time, he longed for his old job, one he barely had to show up for in order to get paid, which led to another brooding moment where he drilled a hole into the cement wall in front of him with his narrowed eyes.

 _Goddamn deceiving bitch._ He ground his teeth together, though he knew he hadn’t spent thousands of dollars making them perfect just to ruin them later. Biting down in self-reprimand on the flesh of his inner cheek instead, he forced it from his troubled mind and brought himself back to the present, namely the gunk floating in his murky water like debris of the brutal shipwreck that was his life.

_...Fuck her._

He had just drained the sink and started refilling it with clean water when one of the nameless chefs finally mustered the courage to approach him about his identity. Admittedly, he was a little insulted it had taken so long for the idiots to connect the dots, especially when he showed up every so often in a Hyperion-yellow T-shirt that simply screamed, _“Notice me!”_ But he would have preferred they didn’t breach the barrier he had put up with his cold, unapproachable attitude and spared him the embarrassment of admitting out loud that he, once a coding god, was now working for an hourly rate.

“So… are you _him?_ ” the man questioned in hushed awe, barely audible over the water rushing through the pipes from the high-powered faucet, as if speaking his name aloud was taboo. “ _The_ Handsome Jack?”

“Wow, you’ve got all the colors under the rainbow in your crayon box there, don’t'cha?” Jack snapped with an unpleasant curl of his lips. He had an image to maintain, even as a lowly dish slave. When he was only given a blank, expectant stare—one all too reminiscent of those of his former subordinates who also didn’t appreciate his rather douchey yet hilarious attitude—he sighed, long and suffering, rubbing a hand wearily over his brow. “Yeah, genius. I’m **the** Handsome Jack.”

Satisfied with the information, the chef looked him over a few more seconds as if surveying a mildly interesting piece of art, making a small noise in the back of his throat. He eventually turned away—but not without leaving an armload of horrendously filthy dishes for _the_ Handsome Jack.

How does one person make such a freaking mess in less than half an hour?! Million-dollar question right there.

He rested most of his weight on the sink and lifted a foot, wincing, while listening to the chefs whispering behind his back in between knives on cutting boards and cabinets being opened and shut. Were they talking about him, gawking at the fallen king while he wasn’t looking and speculating about his personal affairs that the media loved to smear all over people’s faces? The back of his neck prickled sharply, and he bit back the growl that threatened to pry loose from his lips.

The door to the dining area swung open abruptly, which kept his temper in check, but it wasn’t the person he had been waiting for, to his continued annoyance.

“Anyone seen Rhys?” a woman inquired with audible exasperation, poking her head into the kitchen briefly and interrupting the quiet, comfortable monotony that had descended.

Jack tried not to look like he was eavesdropping, though he did perk up a little bit. _Finally_ , someone had responded to his mental command, saving him from having to ask, himself, and appear as though he were concerned about the general manager’s whereabouts. He wasn’t, actually, not really, but it was detrimental to his plans if Rhys just happened to drop off the face of the planet.

“Oh, you know Rhys,” the short chef, whose name Jack had forgotten, responded amicably while kneading a hunk of squishy, seasoned ground beef. “He got a _‘horrible’_ boo-boo yesterday, so he needed some time to cry into his pillow. ...Naahh, seriously, he should be in after lunch.”

Her eyebrow rose above the frame of her glasses, unamused. “…Right. Well, if you see him first, you make sure to remind him that he needs to call in first before taking time off. Being the manager doesn’t make him unaccountable.”

“Okie dokie,” was chirped back at her.

With a twitch of her lips, she was gone, leaving the chefs to chatter anew about topics that didn’t matter enough to register in Jack’s mind.

He chanced a glance at the clock, noting with relief that more time had passed than he originally thought. He decided that he would take his lunch break because he could really use a chance to get off his feet, though the thought of the bland sandwich he had brought with him didn’t make him feel exceptionally eager to sink his teeth into it.

Jack stopped at the time clock on his way out, having shed his damp, food-juice-spattered apron and gloves, and his hand hovered over it, ready to punch in his employee code and mark that he was stepping out for his lunch hour. _But…_

He swung his head from one side to the other, and, seeing nobody looking his way, he shrugged to himself, coy little smile upon his lips, and headed straight for the door without even bothering with it. Normally Rhys was there to ensure that he was using the time clock correctly, seeing as how he was new, but the asshole had ditched—so it wasn’t Jack’s fault.

The CEO of Hyperion didn’t answer to a time clock, after all.

 

* * *

 

To his sadistic delight, his target had appeared in his absence when Jack stepped back into the kitchen. He stopped again at the time clock and pretended to fiddle with it, as if checking back into work, noticing the way Rhys’s eyes dragged from the petite woman he was conversing with to him and quickly back in a rather smooth motion. He muttered something, flashed that goofy, lopsided smile of his, and promptly disappeared back into the noisy bustle of the restaurant.

That wiped the smile from Jack’s lips faster than a business meeting with Torgue ever could, and he scowled darkly. _That little **shit**_. Well, he may have been the “dish technician,” but that didn’t mean he was restricted only to his station. With an arrogant lift of his chin, Jack marched right after Rhys and pushed out into the starkly dim lighting and surprisingly cozy atmosphere. Holy—this place had a fireplace? _Not bad._ Classy and definitely in Jack’s taste, if not a bit on the cheap side. He surveyed the dining patrons, eyeing the multitude of dishes on display with far more desire than he was comfortable admitting to. After the food he had been forcing into his body for the past month, eating something that could easily be poisoned or tampered with in any negative way was suddenly sounding appealing. But—nope, he wouldn’t allow it. Machine-made or self-made; there was no in-between for this handsome devil.

But still, it was unsettling how good everything looked, even after spending so long gagging in exaggerated horror at the by-products that came out of the preparation and culminated in the drain—he forced the imagery out of his mind with a shudder and instead crossed his arms and searched for the tall, skinny brunet that was his general manager over the heads of passing waiters and waitresses.

When he found him, the other man had his back turned on him, so he was able to get close enough to observe him without being caught doing so. He tilted his head to the side and noticed that Rhys had bandaged his finger with far more gauze than was necessary for the tiny puncture. He huffed silently, amused despite himself, and decided to announce his presence.

“Okay, let’s hear it. How’s your finger?” At least he had some experience in dealing with this. Angel was absolutely pitiful over the smallest of papercuts, which he was very good at curing with a kiss to the injury—not that he was going to kiss any part of Rhys.

The younger man startled impressively and spun on his heel to face Jack. “Oh, it’s… still a little painful but not bad,” Rhys admitted with a surprised, frantic blink of his eyes, as if he didn’t know the older man had the capacity to care about other people’s well-being—a fair assumption. He smiled tentatively and folded his hands behind his back. “Thanks, you know, for asking. What can I do for you?”

“Does... the offer,” Jack inquired haltingly, the words syrupy and sticky in his mouth, feeling very awkward as he did, “to _hang out_ , ehhh, still stand?”

“Um, well, you didn’t seem very interested yesterday,” Rhys muttered, rocking back on his heels bashfully. “You don’t have to, like, if you don’t wanna. I just thought—”

“—Nahh,” he drawled while he chanted inwardly, _Nope,_ _don’t wanna, don’t wanna, don’t wanna._ “I mean, suuure. That sounds… cool. Yeah. Right on. Let’s hang out, kiddo.”

“O-okay.” The general manager grinned, and it was like the sun finally creeping out from behind storm clouds. “Meet me outside after work, and you can follow me back to my apartment.”

He shook his head. “Nuh-uh, no good. Gotta take care of something first. Just gimme the address, and I’ll find it.”

With the address hastily scribbled on the back of a kids’ menu with a blue crayon and the younger man out of range, Jack slapped his forehead _hard_. He couldn’t have sounded faker if he had been trying to. He had once complimented his competition’s horrid tie pattern with more conviction. Luckily for him, Rhys was willing to overlook the fact that Jack clearly _didn’t want to_ because his words said otherwise.

 

* * *

 

After his shift, which ended on time for once because Rhys had again provided a helping hand, he stopped home to shower, as well as feed Angel and tuck her in, promising that, because the weekend started tomorrow, he would have more time for her then. She gave him her huge, sad blue eyes but refrained from using her usual dramatic tactics for attention, granting him a soft, “Okay,” and the subtlety of it hit him harder than he had expected. Feeling uneasy, he waited until she had drifted off, giving her a final lingering look before snatching up his jacket and keys.

The short chef—Vaughn; he was trying to remember—didn’t appear too excited when he showed up at the door of their modern, open-concept apartment, even going so far as to back away slowly as if expecting the tall man to strike at any sudden movements.

“He always looks so… _angry_ when I put the dishes at the sink,” Vaughn later whispered into Rhys’s shoulder with a full-body shudder while they seated themselves on the floor in front of side-by-side television sets with wires hanging off like the vines of a weeping willow. “I-I don’t think he likes me.”

“Just give him a chance, okay?” Rhys urged at the same volume.

“Is he, like, gonna shank me? Oh, _god,_ should we have frisked him at the door?”

From one of the two black leather couches, Jack’s quirked brow slowly crawled downwards into an irritated furrow, and his lips pressed into a firm line. As quiet as they **thought** they were, Jack heard every word and frankly didn’t appreciate being chatted about as if he weren’t sitting _right-freaking-there_. Did Jack have any weapons? Well… yes, duh, he always did. But he wasn’t planning on using them. Hadn’t been.

Might.

Thankfully, they dropped the issue and quickly became immersed in what two nerdy, probably virgin, guys sharing an apartment sometimes did.

For the majority of the first hour, Vaughn and Rhys were deeply absorbed in their video game, some sort of first-person shooter with competitive multiplayer, during which they raged loudly at their respective television screens and occasionally whooped and complimented each other with an outrageously obscene usage of the word “bro.” Overall, it was remarkably unappealing and grated on Jack’s tentative sanity and overworked nerves, but he endured, face cupped in his palm while he leaned on it heavily, eyes drooping in boredom. Why did he agree to this, again?

 _It’s for the money,_ he reminded himself, raising his eyes to meet Rhys’s when he realized that his attention was required. The younger man was gesturing insistently at his screen, to which Jack peeled his lips back into what felt more like a grimace but was intended to be a smile of recognition, as if pretending that a child’s crayon scribble was the beginnings of an artistic genius. He fished for something to say that was generic enough to pass. “C _ool_?”

“Uh, is that a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’?” Rhys questioned, appearing confused.

Oh, he had missed something. Jack snapped out of his daze. “What?”

“I asked if you wanted to play…”

Vaughn disguised a snort with a hasty clearing of his throat, fiddling with his controller. “C’mon, Rhys, we still got another round. We can’t let _them_ win. If he wants to play, he’ll ask, right?”

“…All right.” Rhys glanced at him again with concern but ultimately returned his complete attention to the proceedings of the match, sticking his tongue out in concentration as he mashed buttons.

A monstrous yawn tore itself out of the older man’s throat, which he muffled into his hand, eyeing his wristwatch with bleary eyes. It was only a little after nine o’clock, but he often went to bed after tucking his daughter in, lacking his usual expensive hobbies to keep himself amused. It wasn’t because he was **old**. It was because he was **bored**. There was a huge difference.

Jack drifted off into an unseeing abyss for some time, and before he knew it, Vaughn was yawning into his sleeve, turning his game console and television off, presumably heading to his bedroom. “’Night, Rhys. ‘Night, uh…” he mumbled something that vaguely could have been Jack’s name, but it was ultimately lost in translation.

“’Night, buddy,” Rhys echoed after him, having turned off his own electronics. He hoisted himself to his feet and settled on the couch near Jack, leaving a respectful cushion between them. His eyes landed on his handsome companion. “So.”

“So,” Jack repeated, arching an expectant brow, “what now?”

“Um, well, we could talk for a while if you’re not interested in games. And you looked pretty disinterested from what I saw.”

“ _Talk_.” Jack laughed. “Good one. Seriously, what is this, a teenage girls’ sleepover?”

“Ugh, whatever.” Rhys turned away, brow pinched in frustration. “Want a beer or something?”

“Sounds delightful,” he purred. “But only if it isn’t that disgusting light crap. Gimme that if you want a new asshole. I dare ya.”

“Um, no, thanks.” With that, the younger man sprang from the couch and headed into the kitchen, rustling noisily in the refrigerator. When he returned, it was with two beer bottles in his hands, and he offered one to Jack.

They sipped silently at their beverages for a few moments before Rhys broke the silence with, “So… what made you apply for the dishwashing position at the restaurant? I mean, with your experience, you should be able to get a job at any major programming company, right?”

The flippant comment irked Jack and prompted a glare from him. His nostrils flared with a spark of anger. “Yeah, you would think that, wouldn’t you? Presumptuous little shit, thinking you can pry into my personal affairs after giving me one beer. Newsflash, pumpkin, I’m not even _close_ to drunk yet.”

Rhys shot up, alarmed and holding up his free hand in defense. “N-no, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I was just trying to come up with a topic. I’m really sorry. Didn’t mean to pry.”

It was difficult to get really angry when the other man sniveled with absolutely no sense of self-worth. “Meh, shut up and drink your beer, Rhys. Jumpy, aren’tcha?”

The younger man did as commanded without complaint, though he did mumble incoherently into the bottle.

Having calmed down, Jack finally remarked reluctantly with a cautious frown, “Look, I’m… still kind of getting over the whole transition, ya know. Sensitive topic, I guess.”

“Sorry,” Rhys offered again hastily. “I mean, I should’ve known it would be.”

More silence.

“I could, uh, rub your feet,” he then offered out of the blue as if it were a totally normal thing to say to someone he barely knew, “but only if you want me to, of course.”

Jack shot Rhys a hard stare. “Okay, can’t let you go on this one, kiddo. Why the hell do ya wanna touch my feet? I mean, yeah, they’re **my** feet, but _seriously_. Start makin’ some sense right now.”

“I can tell you’re sore. Who wouldn’t be if they had to stand in basically one spot all day? I had a similar job once,” Rhys retorted defensively. He averted his eyes to his hands, which were curled tightly in his lap. Then he sobered up, admitting quietly, “And I-I don’t think it’s fair that you lost everything and ended up working there, of all places. I don’t know the whole story behind it, but I want to try to help you out and get you something better than _dishwashing,_ even if it’s nothing compared to what you had before.”

It was starting to click, and what a fortuitous, beautiful thing it was, wrapped up in a snug blanket of creepiness. The kid was a freakin’ **fanboy**. No wonder he had been so quick to hire him despite his bad reputation slung over his shoulder like a hot, steaming carcass. Jack bit back a triumphant smirk and instead cooed teasingly, “Aw, your restaurant doesn’t suck _that_ much. Give yourself some credit. I mean, to be fair, I never ate there and probably wouldn’t have unless I had to choose between eating there or dyin’, but—well, that’s just ‘cause I don’t trust anyone to make my food.”

Rhys rolled his eyes, appearing faintly insulted. “It’s not _my_ restaurant.”

“But you run it, right? Never seen the owner around once.”

“He’s been on vacation. Rich people, right?” The younger man shrugged, squaring his shoulders. He then puffed out his chest and continued with a note of pride, “I mean, not to brag, but I keep that place going like a well-oiled machine.”

“A- _ha_ , confidence! Knew there was a reason I liked ya.”

Rhys did pretty well appearing as if the words didn’t affect him, but he did perk up considerably and clear his throat. “Oh, really?”

Jack made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, following it with a gulp of beer. “You’re all right. You have your creepy moments, but, eh, who doesn’t? It’s not like you have any posters of me hanging up in your bedroom or anything, right?”

There were a few moments of tense stillness before Rhys choked on a forced laugh, and his voice was a little high-pitched when he sputtered, “Uh, yeah! What? That would just be, like, super creepy. Who… who would do that?” He glanced away momentarily and wrung his hands in a gesture that oozed discomfort. “Yeah, pfffbt, **creepy** …”

Jack decided pretty quickly that he would rather not continue down that seemingly dark, twisted path and shifted uneasily on the couch cushion. “So, uh, your roommate—V-something—”

“—Vaughn,” he corrected quickly.

“Yeah, that guy. He lives with you, and you’re his boss? Kind of weird, but I guess if you’re into that kinda thing…” Jack trailed off meaningfully but ended it with a shrug and an, “ _Eh_.”

“We were roommates before I got my promotion. I kinda helped out in the kitchen a while back, but I think I do better in a management position.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Heh, yeah. He makes enough for his own place, but we’ve lived together for so long now, that we just haven’t bothered to change that. Not to sound like a douche, but there are benefits to having him around to cook. He does some _amazing_ things with chicken.” Rhys’s eyes slid shut, and his lips trembled as if in remembrance. He appeared as if he would salivate from memory alone.

He couldn’t resist and shot lazily, “You guys dating or somethin’? Living together… You makin’ an ‘O’ face over his _technique_ , uh, with chicken.”

Rhys startled visibly, opening and closing his mouth a few times while he formulated his response. “Wh-what? No! He’s just my roommate and one of my best friends.” He swallowed a few times thickly before enquiring with a crack in his voice, “Wh _aaat_ , uh, _a-hem_ , what makes you think I would like m-men?”

“Look, ‘s just a question. Now, calm the hell down.”

They sat in uncomfortable silence for a few long moments, interrupted only when Jack brought his beer bottle to his lips a few more times, drinking just to **do something** rather than because he was thirsty. He just needed to finish up his drink and get the hell out of there fast. He’d done his part and suffered enough through the evening already.

Finally, Rhys mustered enough courage to enquire almost too casually, “So— _hypothetically_ , of course—if I _did_ like men, would that, uh, bother you?”

“Welp, _hypothetically_ ,” Jack sniggered, “I would say I don’t give two huge, steaming shits. What you put up your ass is your own damn business.”

“…Why would you assume that I’m, er, on—on _bottom?_ ”

“I dunno, princess. Just a feeling.” It was painfully clear from his tone and the number of times he rubbed at the back of his neck that Jack was growing uncomfortable and perhaps a little impatient with the direction that the conversation was going. He glanced about the room, trying to avoid looking in Rhys’s direction, which was tougher than it seemed.

“Well,” Rhys wet his lips with a quick, anxious swipe of his tongue and edged closer with a quiet squeak of the leather couch, “do you, um, _like men?_ ”

“Jeezus.” Jack threaded a hand roughly through his dark locks of hair. Nonetheless, he finally peered up at the attentively poised form of his companion through his lashes. “I… guess,” he admitted haltingly, narrowing his eyes. “Ya know, if the dude’s hot and stuff.”

If there was one thing he stood by, Jack didn’t do one-night stands or even occasional, casual flings. He flirted because it was amusing and because he was too freaking handsome not to, but he didn’t go any further than that if he could help it. And with the way Rhys was suddenly appearing more serious than he had ever seen him and continuing to edge closer, Jack knew they were both nearing dangerous and forbidden territory.

He was well-versed in sex, of course, and enjoyed it immensely, but he was picky as hell about his companion and grew too attached for his own damn good.

And look where that had landed him—not that he would ever, in a billion lifetimes, go back and give up the opportunity to bring his Angel into this world. He passionately hated his ex-wife and wished to watch her fall very agonizingly from the pedestal she stole from him, hitting every single step on the way down, but a tiny part of him acknowledged that he would have shackled himself to her again and again, if only to bring something truly beautiful into this sad, miserable world.

A hand landed on his knee, tracing little nonsensical shapes into the rough fabric, bringing his attention back to the matter at hand. His heterochromatic eyes followed the limb to its owner, who was kneeling at his side and leaning in until his warm breath tickled at his neck and fluttered the tiny hairs there. Jack swallowed thickly against the sudden lump in his throat and tensed when chestnut-colored locks brushed his jawline.

“S-so… do I meet Handsome Jack’s high standards?” Rhys murmured into his ear, so close that his soft lips brushed against him. His hand slid up Jack’s muscled thigh and left no doubt as to where the younger man’s intentions laid.

Where had the awkward little nerd gone? There was a fleeting urge to shove the creepy fanboy away, but he couldn’t deny his groin was stirring with interest with Rhys rubbing his thigh suggestively like that because it had been a long time since he had enjoyed sex. _**Oh**_ , _that feels good_. His muscles jumped the tiniest bit when the wandering appendage crept inwards, squeezing gently before following the seam of his tight jeans.

_Higher. C’mon, keep going—little bit more._

_Fuck_ , those fingers were distracting him.

…What was he doing?

 _Right_. He had to stop the kid—emphasis on “kid” because there was _no **goddamned** way_ Rhys was older than, like, twenty-five—there and maybe go home and furiously jerk his dick off like a horny teenager discovering nudie magazines for the first time. Maybe. If he was even still in the mood when he got home and if Angel was still asleep, which frankly were two very huge ‘if’s.

“ _Mm_ ,” Jack let out short hum while contemplating a possible answer, only it was shakier than he anticipated and ended up sounding more like a soft moan. But he didn’t get the chance to complete any coherent thoughts, much to his relief.

“Yo, Rhys,” Vaughn called out from the depths of the apartment, “do we still have any painkillers ‘round here? Got a headache from _hell_ right now. I think it was all that raging I did. Ow. Totally worth it, though. Screw those guys… Freakin' hackers.”

Very reluctantly, Rhys removed his hand from Jack’s person and put a reasonable amount of space between the two of them. He looked so utterly disappointed and even a little miffed that they had been interrupted. Nonetheless, he kept his tone light when he replied, “Yeah, we should. They’re in my medicine cabinet.”

“Still think having a roommate is worth it?” Jack snarked quietly enough for Rhys’s ears only. Okay, so he had been a _little_ bit hard on the shrimpy chef. He was actually relieved that he had showed up when he did. There’s a very fine line to tread when rejecting someone, and he didn’t want to make his general manager hate him, at least before he could squeeze any benefits out of him. ...Giving a fuck was a pretty tough job.

With a frown, Rhys decided silence was a viable option and instead brought one of his long legs up to hide behind, shifting his attention to Vaughn when he came into view.

“Oh, uh, hey again… Jack. Didn’t know you were still here.”

“What’d’ya know, I’m an entertaining guy,” Jack responded dryly, rising to his feet with a satisfying pop of his stiff joints. He decided to take the opportunity that so beautifully presented itself. “But yeeeah, I’mma go home now. Kinda late. So, I guess, see ya guys at work. It was fun and stuff.” He briefly glanced at the uncomfortable look lingering on Rhys’s face before making his way toward the door. “I’ll let myself out. ‘Kay, bye!”

 

* * *

 

“Why do you get to sneak out at night, and _I don’t?_ That’s so unfair,” Angel whined pathetically, crawling into bed with Jack and snuggling up against him.

“’Cause Daddy has friends who don’t have bedtime at eight o’clock,” he retorted pointedly, knowing she was sticking her tongue out at him despite how dark it was. He had snatched his idle hand away from his groin as if it were a venomous reptile the instant he heard those telltale little patters on the carpeted floor heading toward his bedroom. He swallowed his disappointment at his lack of a cheap thrill and instead listened to his daughter’s breathing slow into a comfortable state of sleep.


	3. Everything is (Not) Okay

The father and daughter pair slept in past noon that Saturday—Angel because she always slept in and Jack because he wanted to catch up on some sleep. Once he had properly risen, he stepped outside for a brief moment to grab the newspaper he was subscribed to, which was left haphazardly on their doorstep, and tossed it in the direction of his armchair.

They had breakfast together, a bounty of cereal, toast, and orange juice, and he cleared their dishes from the table and rinsed them out after they had finished. He tried his damnedest not to think about work on his day off, but it was tough when he once again found himself in front of a sink, a once very useful tool and now a symbol of broken dreams and cheap hair gel. He pressed a couple fingers to one of his temples in an attempt to ward off an oncoming stress headache.

“Do you like your job?” Angel questioned, suddenly popping up beside him and seemingly having a similar thought to his.

“Aw.” He chuckled, wiped his hands dry, and gave her a condescending pat on the top of her head. “As much as I’d enjoy havin’ cancer, darlin’.”

She smacked him away gently. “Um, is that a joke? ‘Cause it’s not a good one.”

He snorted, insulted. “You kiddin’? That was _gold_.”

“Cancer isn’t funny,” she told him gruffly, and he immediately raised his hands in surrender at her stern tone.

“Okay, okay, it wasn’t funny. I’m sorry, all right?”

Angel’s lips curled into a very self-satisfied smile, and it was eerily like looking into a mirror. “Apology accepted!”

He smiled faintly and leaned back against the counter behind him. “Welp, I’m all yours for the next two days. So whatcha wanna do today, baby?”

“Hmm.” She thought about it only for a moment before her eyes sparkled with excitement. “Let’s go to the park!”

“Mmkay. Now, let’s try that again. Something reasonable this time.”

“But that _was_ reasonable. It’s not like I’m asking to go to the moon, right?”

“Nuh-uh, not gonna work on me. Pick somethin’ else, or I will do it for you.”

“You never let me go outside,” she muttered under her breath, toeing at the ground with a pout. At her father’s arched, expectant brow, she sighed. “Okay, _fine_. What do _you_ think we should do today?”

“We could look at stocks and have a good laugh at how much Atlas is struggling these days,” he suggested with a smirk and an air of superiority. He especially enjoyed checking up on Atlas, as he had a direct hand in their decline, not that Angel was aware of that fact. He figured that in a few more years she would come to appreciate the art of corporate war more thoroughly, but for now, she was clinging stubbornly to a few too many morals, in his very humble opinion.

“Really, Dad? That’s so _boring_.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s not even a secret that their R &D department is struggling ‘cause they haven’t put out anything new since the Eden Technology Expo over two years ago. My opinion? They’ll be out of business within the year.”

Jack cackled with laughter at that, incredibly pleased with her response. Once it subsided, he bent down to his daughter’s level to meet her eyes with his own. “That’s why you have your employees checked out carefully, before and regularly after ya hire ‘em. Don’t want any spies sending your plans to rival companies before they can be released, right?”

“That would never happen to Hyperion,” she quipped confidently.

“Not under your watch?”

“Nope, not under my watch.”

“Well, Daddy doesn’t mind askin’ his little girl what she thinks now and again, but the stuffy Board of Old Farts might have a few things to say.” He shrugged his shoulder. “Not that _I_ care what they think. But in order to be taken seriously by your company, ya know what needs to be done?”

Her face fell, and she mumbled unhappily, “I have to study.”

“Friggin’ genius,” he praised, and she managed to dodge his hand this time when he went to give her another pat to the head. “There’s still a ton more I gotta teach you when you get older, but for now, we’ll have to stick to the basics.”

He straightened back up and went to retrieve her textbooks from the bookshelf in the living room, and she trotted after him obediently.

“When do I get to code stuff?”

“Wanna follow in Daddy’s footsteps, do ya?” He flashed her a grin, slid on his thick-rimmed glasses, and sat down on the carpet in between the couch and ancient television set, perusing the mathematics textbook flipped open in his hands. “Soon,” he promised absentmindedly.

Angel scooted over next to him after she found her notebook and pencil where she had left them under the couch and nibbled delicately on her lip, watching her father run his finger down the page, mouthing something inaudibly to himself.

“With the new job, I can’t exactly be here to make sure you’re actually studying through the week, kiddo. And by studying, I mean math, English, and other crap like that.” He gave her a serious look. “Not comic books, though comic books _are_ important, too. Nothing beats a hero, right?”

“Right,” she chirped, like it was a fact of life.

“All right, this is a review from last weekend, so you shouldn’t have too many problems. And to sweeten the deal, I’ll turn on the TV if you get all of these right first try, ‘kay?” With that, he left her to the textbook, having pointed out the figures he wanted her to solve. He lifted himself to his feet with loudly creaky joints and then plopped down in his armchair. He opened up the waiting newspaper contentedly and skimmed the columns for something to pique his interest.

Angel hummed a little tune to herself quietly enough not to disturb her father’s reading, the sound of her pencil scratching on the paper occasionally accompanying it. After a short time, she coughed into her balled-up hand, which Jack glanced up at momentarily before returning his eyes to his newspaper.

But then the harmless cough escalated into a few more, then a few more, which quickly became a sudden fit, and Jack was falling to his knees next to her and lifting her chin so he could look at her properly.

She coughed on him a few times, but he didn’t care. “You all right, sweetie?”

“Yeah. Just somethin’ in my throat,” she croaked weakly once she regained her breath. “Sorry… I’ve been feeling it for a few days.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded as calmly as he could muster, though he was hit with a wave of unease.

“You were busy.” She shrugged in a very good imitation of his “That’s-life-deal-with-it” attitude, and he sat back on his heels and closed his eyes for a few long moments.

He very reluctantly left her alone long enough to speed to the nearest drugstore to pick up cough suppressants and various other over-the-counter medications in order to ease her pain, and he spent the majority of his weekend at her bedside, keeping his features molded carefully into nothing that would give away that tight ball of worry clenching painfully in his chest.

 

* * *

 

Monday arrived all too soon, and Jack dragged himself back to work early that morning after checking on his sick daughter, though he would have preferred to take the day off and make sure she recovered. She had still been coughing and complaining about aches and pains, but he couldn’t skip work if he wanted to be able to take care of her, which was a very vexing issue beating at the back of his mind. But he had ensured when they had moved to their dingy apartment that she had a cell phone and knew how to use it to contact him if she desperately needed him, so there was that small comfort. His own was wedged in his front pocket and turned up to maximum volume, and he dried his hands four times an hour to check it.

To his combined amusement and irritation, Rhys seemed to be caught in some sort of strange limbo, where he would wander dazedly in Jack’s direction with a script unfurled on the tip of his tongue, but then he’d freeze at the last moment and pretend that he was hovering in the kitchen for a completely different reason, which conveniently had nothing to do with a certain handsome older man. But those longing glances—they were constant and nagging and something that made Jack feel unnerved.

It wasn’t difficult to capture the gist of what the strange behavior was all about, and he steadily ignored it. If the kid had something to say about feeling him up on Friday, he just had to **say it**. Anyway, hadn’t he already told him that he didn’t come on the first date? There were no surprises there.

It was actually kind of funny; they had a mandatory sexual harassment presentation coming up early the next day. The irony certainly wasn’t lost on him, and he whole-heartedly believed Rhys was also having a nice laugh while furiously fondling his squishy parts to his old “Hyperion God” inspirational posters.

_“Take that stiff, jutting challenge in hand and beat it until it knows who’s the boss—because **you** are **awesome**!”_

Or maybe, “until it knows who’s the _baws_ ,” since Rhys was part of the younger generation, which loved to regularly piss on the dictionary.

He sighed to himself, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye with his rolled-up sleeve. The things he came up with to entertain himself. Seriously, that dramatic episode of Rhys’s wasn’t even beginning to fool Jack, and while he was somewhat flattered that he had such a devoted fan even in his darkest days, he still had some misgivings about how he felt about being in such close proximity with one of his admirers.

So far, it was mostly harmless, but there was always tomorrow when he showed up on Jack’s doorstep uninvited with a pair of scissors and a plastic baggie for a good ol’ DNA-collecting session.

Eh, Jack had a way bigger knife.

 

* * *

 

Even though she didn’t seem to want to leave her bed much, Angel appeared to be slowly recuperating on her own—or at least seemed to not be getting any worse—but he wasn’t an expert. Nonetheless, their arrangement continued to work as well as could be expected, and he left her to a fully stocked refrigerator, many of her favorite treats, and an assortment of new crosswords and various other puzzles to work on in order to occupy her mind when she wasn’t dozing the day away. He had dropped her textbooks, notebook, and pencil at the foot of her bed with a pointed glance, as well, nudging the multitude of comic books out of the way. She had promised to complete a few of the problems in the next chapter, but Jack was lenient, giving her only a couple easy ones.

When he stepped into the kitchen that morning before the usual operations had begun, he had been directed through the restaurant to a back office that was rather spacious and set up with folding chairs, occupied here and there by his coworkers, as a temporary setup for their scheduled sexual harassment and sensitivity training. There was a desk at the front, and a projector was turned on and atop it, illuminating the wall behind it with a slide that depicted a man in a suit leaning rather suggestively over a woman who was working at a desk.

Jack found a seat somewhere in the back row, crossing his arms and surveying the office with a disinterested, half-lidded stare. His ears buzzed unpleasantly while his coworkers chattered all around him while the room slowly filled up.

Finally, Rhys entered the office, closed the door behind him, and made his way up between the seats to the desk, where he shuffled the papers in his hands. He bent over an open laptop on the desk and clicked a few things while his subordinates continued to chat.

“Okay, I know most of you have already heard this a few times before, but we do have a few new employees who haven’t, and it’s mandatory every year, anyway,” Rhys began, raising his voice, and the room quieted down. “So let’s get started.”

Jack slouched a few sentences later and placed his elbows on his knees, cupping his face in his palms—the pose of absolute boredom. He abhorred listening to other people speak for lengthy amounts of time. Business meetings had been hell for him, and having to listen to the Board of Directors of Hyperion drone on about why organizing infiltration operations to sabotage other companies was morally unethical had been utterly tedious. It wasn’t that Rhys was a terrible speaker; on the contrary, he was organized and well-paced and barely had to consult his notes. Jack just preferred to hear his own voice and be the one shoving ideas and rules down other people’s throats, naturally.

“—And I’m not just talking about women. Men can be the victims of sexual harassment, as well.” He paused a little too much to be casual, though no one but Jack had any inkling why. “What do I mean by sexual harassment? Well, a number of things. This includes touching other people anywhere on their bodies without their permission—or with it, offering promotions or help with work in exchange for sexual favors, and the use of pet names, to name a few.”

Jack smiled innocently at that. Admittedly, he was very impressed with how Rhys kept it together and acted so professional up at the front of the room like that. The general manager hadn’t glanced in Jack’s direction once or even stammered his words other than an occasional “um” of filler while he was taking a moment to move on to the next slide with the click of the touchpad. It was like Jack was watching a whole different person, one who quickly realized that some of his own behavior in the past few days could have been misconstrued as sexual harassment if observed by the wrong person—and that preaching about its negativity… well, made him a damn dirty hypocrite.

But Jack wasn’t about to rat him out. Sexual harassment was good in this case. Sexual harassment was going to get him friggin’ promoted. **Hell yeah** , unsafe workplace!

A lot of the employees seated around Jack had long since grown disinterested, and he was quick to join them once the good stuff had passed and moved right along into how to report any signs of sexual harassment. He didn’t even want to know how to.

A horrendously long time later, or so it felt to Jack, Rhys concluded the dry presentation and allowed people to file out of the office and begin opening up the restaurant for the day, but something made Jack want to linger behind in his seat. His eyes followed the other man’s progress; the general manager spent more time than what was necessary up at the desk while fiddling with the laptop and organizing various things on the surface.

Was Rhys stalling to see if Jack would leave first? Probably. But that didn’t mean he was going to. He remained firmly in his seat, tapping his foot on the ground rhythmically, and eventually, Rhys broke first and hurried across the length of the office to the door, much to his amusement.

Jack rose to his feet to follow behind in a more casual stroll, hands shoved into his pockets. After all, he was in no hurry to don his fashionable, stained work garments.

Then the heavens opened up, and the gods of sexual harassment and clichés granted unto Jack the opportunity he didn’t know he had been waiting for.

In his haste to escape, one of the looser pieces of paper in Rhys’s arms slipped free and fluttered to the ground at his feet. He stood motionless for a few long moments, as if weighing the pros and cons of leaving it there and running the unholy hell away. Ultimately, he let out a quiet breath of resolve and bent over to retrieve it.

Jack’s eyes appreciated the curve of his supervisor’s nicely plump rear as it was presented to him.

He couldn’t resist. Really, Rhys was making it far too easy for him. Jack was a weak, weak man when it came to having the last laugh, and what a laugh it would be. He leaned forward, the front of his jeans pressing against the luscious backside on display as he did.

“Hey, tits’n’ass, cute little presentation up there. Come by my office after you’re done playing grown-up, ‘kay? Kisses,” he cooed sweetly in his ear, ending it with a firm slap on the ass, which had a very confused Rhys nearly jumping out of his skin and stumbling forward into one of the abandoned chairs with a noisy clatter. The yelp that accompanied it made it all the better.

Needless to say, it was the best idea ever, and he laughed hysterically as he made his way out and back to his station to begin his shift, though not before peeking back at Rhys and watching his face heat up in a magnificent blush, his features etched with embarrassment and shame. It was an attractive look for him, Jack acknowledged fleetingly, and the memory of it put a wide smile on his face for the rest of the day.

Even now, hours later, insane giggles were _still_ bubbling out of his throat over it at inappropriate intervals.

Heh.

Gotta laugh to keep from crying, right?

 

* * *

 

“…I miss Mom,” Angel admitted, her hushed tone hoarse from illness, which sent a spike of ice down Jack’s spine and flooded his chest with liquid fire in the very same moment. A wave of dark, shiny hair fell in front of her eyes as she shyly peeked up at her father’s emotionless features. Her voice wavered with trepidation as she pondered aloud, “Do you ever miss Mom?”

He cleared his throat, worked his jaw for a few moments, and then lifted his chin in a typical show of Hyperion arrogance. “Who?”


	4. (Poisonous) Touch

“Jack…”

The tentative greeting came from behind him unexpectedly the next day, and Jack turned to look at the speaker, though he already knew who it was. “Hm?”

“I… What you did yesterday, when you said—ugh, what I mean is—” Rhys paused, sighed heavily, and shook his head. He then took a deep, steadying breath and continued with more confidence, “Look, I realize now that some of the things I’ve done may’ve, well, been inappropriate. And I’m not just talking about certain things outside of the restaurant. I shouldn’t have been pressuring you into hanging out with me by offering to do your work for you.”

“Oh, you mean a little somethin’ we were _just_ lectured on?”

“…Yes,” his voice was quietly ashamed, “that.”

“Somethin’ that we were given explicit instructions on how to report ‘cause it’s wildly frowned upon and could make a workplace unsafe and cause some serious emotional trauma?”

“Mm-hmm.” He lowered his eyes to his feet. “I’m, ah… Wow, when you put it like—you know, I'm really sorry about—”

“—Sexually harassing me?”

Rhys’s hands shot up as if he were going to reach forward and pluck the incriminating words from the air between them. “ _Yes_ ,” he hissed, casting uncomfortable glances around to make sure no one was within hearing range. “Um… What—what can I do to make it up to you?”

“Hmm,” Jack eyed him with a hand upon his chin in thought for a few long seconds before gesturing at his sponge, which was torn apart from all the abuse it had been put through. “I could use a new sponge, don’t'cha think?”

“A… a sponge,” Rhys repeated slowly. “So let me make this clear: If I get a sponge for you, you won’t, you know, report me?”

“My lips would be sealed.” He traced the seam of his lips with his index finger for emphasis, but Rhys still looked faintly skeptical.

Ultimately, he shrugged it off and agreed, heading straight for the storeroom.

Most of the chefs had already taken off for lunch break, which was probably why Rhys had approached him when he did, but a few had stayed behind to make sure any straggling customers were taken care of. They didn’t even glance up when Rhys passed by or when Jack followed behind him moments later.

Another opportunity was presenting itself, one where he could really leave a lasting print on Rhys and skip a few steps ahead on his way to real benefits. There was an eager energy building up within Jack as he stepped into the storeroom and let the door swing shut behind him. He could hear his prey rustling in another row of shelves out of his line of sight.

“Sec’,” Rhys called absentmindedly. “Just need to find, ugh, the damn things. Why do we have so much random junk in here? I don’t even think we use half this stuff anymore. Yeah—these are definitely outdated. Should probably throw ‘em away.”

The older man located him with ease, watching as Rhys stretched upwards to reach a box on one of the middle shelves, rifling through it with his back turned.

It was undeniably time for Jack to strike. In three long strides, he reached the younger man and promptly shoved him against the shelves, sliding one hand over his mouth before he could let out what would have been a very loud noise.

A few muffled protests escaped Rhys’s throat. He reached up to tug at Jack’s wrist to free his mouth, but it wouldn’t budge.

Jack wrapped his other arm around him in an embrace and took a moment to appreciate the fast, small breaths against his palm, which spoke volumes about the rapid progress of the other man’s anxiety level. His hand snaked a very slow, deliberate path over Rhys’s torso while he forced the man’s head back onto his shoulder so he could see every little twitch in his expression while he touched him.

He didn’t have long before the danger of being discovered escalated sharply with the end of lunch break for most of the kitchen dwellers who would be missing their dishwasher, so he had to keep things short but sweet and make a nice impact. Thus, he didn’t bother with any other part of the skinny body and went straight for his objective. His wandering hand toyed with the buckle of Rhys’s belt before undoing it skillfully and tugging the button of his pants free. The sound of the zipper being pulled downwards slowly was loud and meaningful in the silence of the storeroom. The pants clung stubbornly to Rhys’s narrow hips but just barely.

Rhys sighed hotly against Jack’s palm. His pulse thundered insistently against the skin of the forearm pressed to his neck as Jack shifted his stance behind him.

It was hard to concentrate on his original plan, which was to just give him a tiny taste of what it was like to be with Handsome Jack, which consisted of a few teasing brushes and maybe a little dirty talk if he was lucky. But Rhys was so warm, soft, and pliant in his arms and was encouraging him onwards with those breathy noises. The urge to fuck the creepy fanboy into a box of kids’ menus was powerful, but he liked to think he was in complete control and could distance himself enough to make it an impersonal thing. It was just a display of power.

 _But_ … he figured it wouldn’t hurt to push things a _little_ further, only just enough so that the kid wouldn’t be able to think about anything else for the rest of the week. He could leave him with a very painful erection and also have the pleasure of watching him squirm over it. It could be pretty funny, which was important since Jack’s entertainment throughout the day was usually in short capacity.

Speaking of erections—there was already a sizable bulge pushing up demandingly against Jack’s hand through a tight pair of boxer shorts, a clear indication of Rhys loving to feel powerless and be on display for his hero, and he followed the strained pull of the fabric along the length with a teasing, idle touch.

“How does that feel?” he purred into Rhys’s ear, listening to him sigh in response. He detected wafts of a pleasant cologne from him, and he inhaled it before continuing huskily, “Feel good, babe?”

“ _Mmph_ ,” Rhys responded, reaching back with one hand to anchor himself with a hold on Jack’s outer thigh. He then surprised Jack by completely changing the game—he reached down and daringly grabbed the older man firmly by the wrist. The captured hand was shoved beneath the waistband of his boxers without any shame.

A tiny bit of fluid smeared across his palm as he was forced to take the young man into his loose hand. There was a flicker of anger at his supervisor’s audacity to think he could control the pace, and in response, he abruptly bit down on Rhys’s earlobe in punishment, tearing from him a violent flinch and muffled cry. “Well, look at you, Mr. High and Mighty. Think you can give **Handsome Jack** orders?”

Rhys stilled at the threatening edge in his voice, and from what Jack could see of his profile from his angle, his brow pinched together. He then shook his head silently and released Jack’s hand as if it had bitten him.

“That’s right. Good boy.” He curled his fist around Rhys’s cock and gave him a firm stroke, tugging him free of his boxers as he did, which earned him a choked moan. The sound sent a jolt of arousal straight through Jack. _Fuck_ , he definitely needed more of that. “Let’s try to keep that in mind next time ya wanna grab my goddamn hand, ‘kay?”

Rhys gave him a frantic nod, and Jack snickered at the urgency behind the gesture.

“ _Man_ , what would our coworkers think if they came in here and saw ya like this, Rhysie?” He shifted upwards on his toes so he could peer down Rhys’s torso and past the bunched-up shirt to where his hand was dragging up and down in a slow, sensual pace over stiff, flushed skin. He flicked his tongue over his lips at the very agreeable sight. “Probably somethin’ like, ‘Such a fuckin’ mess,’ right?”

He pumped Rhys in a firm enough grasp so that he could feel it, enough to hold his continued interest, but his pace was his own, headed nowhere near to any kind of completion and just as a way to amuse himself. He enjoyed the way Rhys trembled in his arms, muscles jerking involuntarily when he gently brushed the slit at the top and spread a bead of pre-come across the head of his cock with his thumb.

The general manager let out a whimper of pain and pushed back toward Jack, who moved away before Rhys could discover the impressive erection he was sporting. Oh, no, Jack wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that he was _fucking turned on_ by what was happening. Power play was a huge weakness of his. But he was consciously aware of the minutes ticking by, and though he had joked about it, a coworker wandering in during this would be extremely inconvenient for him—devastating, even.

Frankly, he didn’t have time for murder right now.

“Listen to you. Shameless,” he murmured against his shoulder when Rhys gasped, the hand on his thigh tightening. It took every ounce of his willpower to stop jerking him off and steer them in the direction of where he had spotted some sponges. His other hand didn’t move from where it kept Rhys quiet in case he didn’t have the sense to keep his voice down.

“Oh, look, you found ‘em,” Jack commented cheerfully. He reached upwards and snatched a new sponge from an opened six-pack of them above their heads. “You’re so helpful, Rhysie.” To reinforce it, he petted Rhys’s styled chestnut hair when he finally released his mouth, then took a few generous steps back to put some much-needed space between their bodies.

The young man slumped forward without Jack’s support and panted weakly, fingers gripping the edge of the shelf where the sponges were housed.

A sudden thought occurred to Jack. “Oh, gimme your number, why don’t'cha? Just in case.”

With great difficulty, Rhys fumbled with his stiff erection, stuffing it with a pained groan back into his boxers. He wiggled his pants securely back up his hips and tucked in his shirt in order to make himself as presentable as before. Once everything was hidden away behind zipper, button, and belt, he turned to the amused form of Jack with a flushed face. He wiped his palms on his thighs and smoothed back his hair self-consciously before giving a remarkably calm nod for someone who had just been unexpectedly fondled in a dusty storeroom during work.

Jack retrieved his cell phone and fiddled with it, making a new entry for his general manager. After some thought, glancing up at the disheveled man, he smiled to himself and decided to name him ‘Great Ass.’ It was accurate, after all, and he had not yet given the description to anyone in his contacts.

Rhys’s eyes fell upon the screen when the phone was handed to him, and he immediately frowned in disapproval. “ _Really?_ ” he muttered. Nonetheless, he did nothing about it and entered his cell phone number before handing the device back to its owner.

“Great. Take a moment to compose yourself, puddin’. Don’t wanna poke any eyes out with that massive boner,” he cooed before leaving the man in his pitiful state of dwindling arousal. He didn’t see him for the rest of the day, which was probably for the best.

 

* * *

 

It was time to make his first big move and see just how much his effort had paid off. He woke up the next morning half an hour earlier than usual and dialed Rhys on his cell phone, waiting impatiently for the other man to accept his call. Hopefully his supervisor wasn’t one of those people who ignored numbers that weren’t in his contacts, but Jack was pretty confident that his call was expected. If Rhys _normally_ ignored unknown calls, it wouldn’t happen until Jack’s number was safely tucked away for future reference, perhaps in his little black book.

“ _Rhys here_ ,” came the abrupt greeting.

Jack was about to speak but was cut off by Vaughn whooping loudly in the background and Rhys reprimanding him gently. He could hear with no difficulty that the shrimpy chef was getting in some early gaming before work. He sneered, irritated with the interruption.

“ _Sorry about that_ ,” Rhys apologized, a cringe audible in his tone. “ _Hello?_ ”

“Hey, kitten,” he husked.

Rhys didn’t say anything immediately, but his breath picked up the slightest bit. The background noise quickly disappeared, and everything was silent on the line until Rhys finally gulped and stammered, “ _J-Jack, what’s up?_ ”

“I just wanted to see if you remembered a certain thing ya did for me yesterday. You were _such_ a helpful boy,” Jack murmured. The low volume of his voice was mainly because Angel was nearby with the television on, but it served him well when he heard the tiny noise of Rhys’s lips parting enticingly. “Followin’ me so far, Rhysie?”

“ _Yeah_ ,” he breathed. “ _Uh, why?_ ”

“I was just thinkin’… I really appreciated that and all,” he began slowly, enjoying the suspense he was building. “And that led to another thought of, well, if I ever had somethin’ to take care of instead of goin’ to work, my pal Rhys would be my first choice to go to about it. Catchin’ my drift?”

“ ** _Oh_** ,” Rhys replied, his disappointment palpable. He cleared his throat and continued with his friendly general manager voice, “ _Oh, yeah, no problem. You can take the day off if there’s something really_ —”

“—Yeahhh, I knew I could count on ya,” he interrupted. He paused for a moment to let that sink in, but Rhys offered no input. “But there’s somethin’ that would make me feel _so_ much better in my time of need.”

“ _And what’s that?_ ”

“Well, even if I can’t come into work today, that doesn’t mean I can’t get paid, right?” he suggested slyly. “I’m always there in spirit, after all.”

Rhys made a few incomprehensible and rather insulted noises, and Jack could picture the face he was making so very clearly in his mind. “ _Are… are you **seriously** suggesting that I clock you in while you’re not working?_ ”

“Ah, so we _are_ on the same page. That’s wonderful. Then what’s the problem, babe?”

“ _I… I can’t do that_ ,” he responded skittishly. “ _Look, I don’t know what you think—ugh… Jack, I’m not just a tool for you to use, all right?_ ”

“Oh, really?” Jack wandered into his own bedroom and let the door shut silently behind him. “My hand wrapped around your, ah, cock yesterday proved otherwise. You were a malleable tool for my use then, makin’ those pretty noises of yours.”

As if in demonstration, Rhys’s breath hitched at the sudden crudity, and it took Jack back vividly to the moment he was describing, the remembrance of the younger man arching that delectable ass against him, his chest rising and falling rapidly as if he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs in between each desperate inhale—eyes fluttering shut, hips jerking forward…

Jack cleared his throat and tugged at the collar of his T-shirt with a tiny frown. Rhys had yet to respond, which prompted him to tap his foot impatiently, yet inaudibly, on the carpeted floor. “ _Well?_ Am I wrong?”

“ _N-no_ ,” he whispered.

“Good answer. You do wanna please me, don’t'cha?”

Another faint gulp. “ _Yes._ ”

At that, Jack’s ego teetered under its own weight and threatened to fall and break a hole through the planet. He patted himself on the back a few times, posed for a few hundred pictures, and retired as a freakishly wealthy, successful mortal god. In due time. “Fantastic! Clock me in when ya get to work?”

“… _Okay_ ,” Rhys finally muttered in defeat after a huge amount of hesitation, sounding not a bit happy about it. “ _But just this once_.”

 _We’ll see about that_ , Jack shot back inwardly with a smirk. “Man, you—you are just the **best**. Ya know that, right? And who knows…” he trailed off meaningfully, “maybe I’ll stop by your place later tonight so I can properly reward my good little Rhysie. We didn’t have a whole lotta time yesterday, after all. How’s that sound?”

“ _Ah_ …” Rhys let out a short sound—indicating rather obviously that it sounded goddamned all right with him—at the suggestion, which was purposely left open to a multitude of delicious interpretations. “ _W-what about Vaughn?_ ”

“Who? …Oh, yeah, friggin’ pest. Get rid of him before tonight, ‘kay?”

He sighed softly. “ _No promises, but I’ll try_.”

“And I’ll _try_ not to do you any more favors if I see him around. See ya then, princess.” Jack ended the call before giving Rhys the chance to say anything else and slid his phone back into his pocket. He practically glowed with pride.

“Who was that?” Angel inquired, peering at him from over the back of the couch as he emerged from the bedroom.

“Eh, nobody you’d know.”

“So everyone in the world,” she muttered before flopping back into her original position.

Jack chose not to acknowledge her words because he knew she was a little grumpy—they didn’t have the channel that aired one of her favorite shows. He instead took a seat next to her and lounged, throwing an arm over the back of the couch. He stared blankly at the television screen that was flickering in the dimly lit room, at a loss of what to accomplish that day. Despite what he had implied on the phone, he had just wanted a paid vacation day, to prove that he could get it when he wanted to. His schedule was clear until the evening, when he was planning on paying his general manager a visit at his home.

Whatever Angel had been mildly interested in on the television failed to keep her fully entertained, and soon, she had drifted to sleep, curled up in a ball. Jack took this time to steal the remote and flip through the channels with his face propped up with his fist, bored.

Some time passed after he had found a random movie on cable television, and his phone buzzed in his pocket, alerting him to a notification. When the screen lit up, it informed him that it was a text message, which simply read, ‘ _Hey, boss, got something to discuss when you have time. Need your new address._ ’

He didn’t know the sender just from looking at the number. He, personally, had kept the same private number from his days as the Hyperion CEO, but he hadn’t given it out to just anyone. The “boss” part gave him a good idea as to the identity of the person, but he wasn’t about to give his address to someone random, should his assumption be false. He called the number and waited for an answer, biting on his thumbnail while Angel slumbered blissfully next to him.

It didn’t take long at all, as if the person had anticipated his suspicion and expected the call, clearly a sign of someone who knew him more than the average fan.

“ _Hey, cupcake_ ,” the person answered cheerfully in a _very_ familiar voice that had him immediately rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, keep that up. I dare ya,” Jack countered light-heartedly. Then he questioned curtly, “Is it important?”

The man on the other end didn’t say anything right away but then drawled, “ _Ehhh… Yeah, kinda. It’s not somethin’ I’d wanna do without askin’ ya first, ya know?_ ”

“I swear you’re mockin’ me, kiddo, but I’ll let it slide for now. Not in the mood to kick your ass.” He also wasn’t in the mood for small talk, at least not over the phone, and he gave the other man his address, hanging up after the information had been written down.

He immediately entered the number into his address book under an existing entry—already filled with a multitude of different ones—which was simply 'Handsome.'

 

* * *

 

Hours later, with his daughter fed and showered—and permitted to stay up awhile longer to watch television to ease her grumpy mood—Jack pulled up to Rhys’s apartment and climbed out of his car. He knocked on the front door, and he could hear footsteps approaching quickly to greet him while he flicked an invisible speck from his jacket. He knew he looked especially good that evening, having donned his long, white collared shirt and beige vest atop his Hyperion T-shirt. It felt incredibly good to have a reason to appear the powerful man he had once been, even if he didn’t anticipate much coming of the evening with Rhys.

He really had to cool things down between them because the rapid pace was making him uncomfortable—it was never in the plan to have his hand down the younger man’s pants within two weeks of meeting him. Therefore, he had come up with the best way to handle the visit in a way that would satisfy Rhys enough to keep him right where he wanted him, eager for more.

Rhys unlocked the door, and whatever he had been planning to say clung to his tongue and crawled right back to where it had come from. His eyes swept over Jack’s attire with visible appreciation. “Wow,” he finally managed. “You look… really great.”

“I always do. Gonna let me in or what?” Jack flashed him a charming grin despite the dismissive words, and he was instantly granted access to the cozy interior. He could have groaned aloud, taking a better look around at his surroundings than he did the first time he had visited. Confronted with it all, he realized just how much he missed the little comforts like clean, fluffy carpet under his feet, firm upholstery to support his back, and drapes that were the same color. He longed for glass tables, shiny wood cabinets, video games and consoles to play on them, flat televisions that were bigger than he was and hung from the wall—

—Then Rhys was in his face, leaning forward with his eyes closed. His intention was crystal clear, which had Jack reeling back with a sudden, “ _Whoa!_ ”

The other man didn’t appreciate the unnecessarily dramatic reaction and frowned, silently demanding an explanation with his slightly narrowed eyes.

“I don’t kiss,” he told him firmly. He didn’t kiss because it was too intimate, was the unexplained part. On the contrary, Jack could get very hard very fast from a good make-out session, and in the past often indulged right before incredibly satisfying sex—but that wasn’t for Rhys to know.

Or so he told himself. Frequently.

“All righty then.” There was a hint of embarrassment in the simple response, and Rhys directed him toward the couches in front of the entertainment system before disappearing into the kitchen. Almost immediately, he was back with beers, which he set on the glass table Jack had been admiring nearby. He then eased down on his knees in front of Jack and reached for his belt like it was no big deal.

“Ah-ah-ah.” The older man held up a hand, stopping him. “Nope. None of that, either. Don’t have enough time for it.”

Rhys looked so painfully confused. “Seriously? Then what did you mean, you know, on the phone earlier?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. Your _reward_ is that you can ask me a question. Dependin’ on my mood, ya might get an answer. Good deal?”

“Not really,” Rhys admitted, disgruntled, but looked intrigued, nonetheless. He stood, snatched up a beer, and retreated to the other couch like a kicked puppy.

“Welp, too bad. What’s your question, cupcake? Make it count.”

Rhys didn’t need long to think about it. “The one you never gave me an answer to. Why couldn’t you get a job as a programmer?”

Jack smiled wryly, stretching forward to take the other beer. “Yeah, thought you’d revisit that. Ehh, ya know what? I’ll bite. What’d you already hear about it?”

“That you raped and abused your ex _-_ wife,” he replied without hesitation, keeping steady eye contact, “and stole millions from Hyperion.”

Jack shrugged nonchalantly. “Figured. And about that—the, ah, rape thing? Let’s just say she and I had this wild night where I wanted to try somethin’ new, just this idea we **both** had, and… and… Jeezus, kiddo, don’t ever friggin’ videotape your freaky sex-capades, _especially_ after a bottle of tequila. It will come back and bite you in the ass.” As an afterthought, he added quickly, “Meh, just don’t trust anyone. That’s all I gotta say.”

“So… you _didn’t_ rape her?”

“No,” Jack snapped. “The only things I raped were some wallets for a damn good reason, if I do say so, myself. But her?” He snorted. “She was a very willing participant, but because it was a _rape fantasy_ —one we _both_ shared, to repeat myself—I looked like a goddamn **rapist**. See my dilemma?”

“And you couldn’t get a job as a programmer—”

“—Because the ex-wife and I shared the same contacts, which included any business worth its salt, and she was the victim… Then the goddamn media got involved and twisted the story to pieces, as usual… so everyone heard about it in the worst possible way. Total mess. I couldn’t slide right into anything as a highly compensated programmer with way too much experience because after the whole scandal, everyone thought I was a friggin’ rapist-wife-beating-thief. So here I am, a _dishwasher_ , of all things. What a joke, am I right?”

Rhys nodded in understanding. “Why’d you take money from Hyperion?”

Jack laughed. “Don’t be greedy! I didn’t say you could ask two questions, did I? Should have picked your question more carefully.”

“Heh, I tried.”

They both sat in silence while Rhys digested the new information.

“When I heard about it, it was just… so surreal,” the younger man finally continued. “You must have had some seriously expensive legal help to avoid prison. How’d you afford it? I thought all your assets were frozen before the trial.”

“Still tryin’ to dig for more? Tenacious little bastard, aren’tcha?” Jack shook his head. “I didn’t have to hire shit for that 'cause of the agreement her team drew up for me. All I had to do was sign over my money to help with the ‘trauma’ I inflicted on her, plus interest, pack my things, and get the hell out of Hyperion—quietly. And even if I _had_ needed some lawyers, yeah, I had money of my own that wasn’t tied to her or the company, ya know, just somethin’ I had on the side for a rainy day in case things ever got bumpy between us. Handsome Jack ain’t goin’ to prison, especially not for somethin’ he didn’t do.”

“But you _did_ steal, even if you didn’t rape her, which is still a crime.”

“Not in my eyes. That money was put to a very good use.” Jack suddenly glanced down at his unopened beverage, squeezing it, his eyes narrowing into a furious glare. “Or it would have been, with some time. Thanks to that _fucking bitch_ , every last cent of it was wasted.”

He probed hesitantly, “…You’re really not gonna tell me what it was for?”

“Go on, try askin’ a few more times and find out if I will or not.”

Rhys wisely decided not to.

 

* * *

 

Angel was asleep when Jack returned and didn’t even stir when he shut the door and slid the deadbolt in place. He couldn’t see her face, as it was buried in her blanket, and he gently tugged the fabric away so he could look at her.

From the light emitting from the television and what spilled out from the kitchen, he could see that there was a slight discoloration across her face, a rash of some sort that hadn’t been there earlier. Jack wasn’t exactly sure what had caused it, but it was ominous and tugged painfully at his heart, leaving him feeling helpless and very frustrated.

“My poor baby,” he murmured quietly, carefully taking her into his arms as if she were a fragile piece of glass and carrying her into her bedroom to tuck her in for the night. She didn’t react other than to shift slightly when he whispered, “ _I’m sorry_ ,” into her silky hair.

He sat on the floor at her bedside, laying his head down on the blanket she was cocooned under. He fell asleep there, her tiny hand swallowed up in his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Update (March 14th, 2017):** I haven't forgotten about this story. Unfortunately, I lost a lot of interest in this fandom and moved on to _Elder Scrolls Online_. I don't want to abandon this story because I have a lot of the story already summarized and planned out. But I won't lie—this story, being the first one I ever wrote for this fandom and one of my least favorites, is extremely low on my priorities. I just wanted to leave this note here for anyone who happens to find this buried and expresses interest. Thank you to everyone who has given me feedback in the form of kudos, bookmarks, subscriptions, or comments! It means a lot.


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